Dead Man's Razor
by eekfrenzy
Summary: Sweeney Todd finds himself in a place that he'd never expected he would go - the supernatural ship of the dead, the Flying Dutchman.
1. He Never Saw It Coming

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney belongs to Sondheim, Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, DorisTheYounger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories). And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews!

Yes, it's true, here's Sweeney Todd in a situation he never expected to find himself in... This idea was inspired by Johnny Depp and my own twisted imagination.

**Chapter 01 He Never Saw It Coming  
**

The man who called himself Sweeney Todd never saw his doom coming, never saw the cannonball that broke the ship's deck and flung him into the air. He barely had time to register that he was going to die before he hit one of the fallen sails and tumbled from it onto a piece of decking, now tossing and tumbling in the turbulent sea.

Water filled his ears, but couldn't drown out the explosions and screams of dying sailors. He tried to gather himself together, but the effort was almost too much for him as the sea water stung his body like acid. The throbbing pain in his head made him wonder if the cannonball had hit him, and droplets of blood were steadily dripping down his face and over his eyes.

_No matter, what I must return to my family – Lucy, I will find you_. He forced himself to stay conscious and afloat. He had to stay alive, he had to make it back.

Wiping the blood from his face – _oh please, no sharks_ – he gazed at the destruction around him.

The merchant ship Dove he'd been traveling on – now that was a laugh, the ship was barely a rum trader – was tilting to one side, its two masts broken and its sails dragging into the water. Not even enough cargo for the pirate ship to want the ship whole. Or maybe the pirates had no desire to keep the crew of the ship alive. What hope did Benjamin Barker – no, Sweeney Todd – have, then?

_You must have hope._ He would stay alive and make it back to London. He would not give up. Benjamin Barker hadn't given up in the fourteen years it had taken him to escape that pesthole of a Botany Bay prison colony – he hadn't given up in almost a year of painstakingly making his way across the world. He would not give up now.

Should he declare himself, and submit to the pirates? He watched as the first mate was caught by them, watched as one pirate used his cutlass to slit the man's chest and stomach until his innards escaped, watched as they unceremoniously dumped the screaming man into the ocean. He couldn't help himself – he started to move toward the screaming man who was thrashing weakly in the water, even though he knew there was no hope for him. The only hope for the first mate was a quicker death – which he could not bring himself to provide.

Suddenly a wind gusted, the waves rose, and the smell of ancient seas, storms, and the reek of shipwrecks filled the air. He clung to his pathetic piece of wreckage as the water churned and boiled. Terrified, the pirates screamed and fled to their own ship.

Then a ship appeared out of nowhere, a ship from an older age, its hull decorated with bright and polished carvings of grotesque creatures and screaming men. The white sails on its three high masts were opened by a wind that seemed to blow only for it, and the gun ports on two levels opened to reveal demon faces that spat cannonballs at the pirate ship. The old ship seemed like something out of a dream or a nightmare.

The pirates had no chance. Their small ship foundered almost instantly as the cannonshot punctured the hull. The ship convulsively shuddered and the masts with the pirates' colors came crashing down. And then the pirate ship slipped under the waves, so suddenly that the men aboard were trapped and dragged under.

Should he hail that ship? He felt in his bones that the vessel was not meant for him, yet it was his only chance to survive. Barker had started to raise his head to scream for help when the first mate shuddered, lifted his head, and stood up in the water, his intestines spilling from the gash in his stomach. "Sorry, mate," the dead man said in a hollow, remote voice. "It's the Dutchman. You might as well give up now – it's time to go." With that he began to move across the water to the ancient ship.

At the corner of his eye he saw that more sailors with arms hacked off or bloody heads or torsos crisscrossed with red were still somehow moving toward the ship. The sight filled him with horror. Was that a rowboat coming for him from THAT ship? He tried mightily to escape – he couldn't be trapped in that hell. But the pain in his head wouldn't let him move, and he was growing steadily weaker. His grip loosened from the piece of decking and he began to slip into the water. He hoped he'd drown before the rowboat arrived.

**The New Recruit**

As the small rowboat silently cut through the water, Bootstrap Bill Turner, first mate of the Flying Dutchman, peered across the waves. He was trying to spot one form amongst the wreckage. Finally spotting it slipping off a piece of decking, he grabbed at the body and called back to the ancient ship. "Ah, there you are. Cap'n, we've got 'im, and it looks like he's alive." After a moment's examination, he shook his head.. "Naw, belay that – he just passed." Then he waited for the apparition to appear. It never took long – there weren't many who wanted to delay their voyage to the afterlife.

Time passed, but nothing happened. "C'mon, hurry up," Bootstrap muttered. Still nothing. "Ah, you're gonna make it hard on yourself." He hauled the body into the boat and started rowing back to the Dutchman.

Moments later, Bootstrap hauled the slight form onto the main deck as he nimbly climbed back aboard near the bow. "Cap'n, we've got a problem." The motley crew of the Flying Dutchman peered curiously at the scene, but did not approach until the Captain indicated that they could.

"What kind of problem?" asked Captain Will Turner. Slim, young-faced, and mild-speaking, he held the fate of the crew of the Flying Dutchman in his hand. Yet at Bootstrap's announcement, he couldn't help but shake his head and admonish him. "You know you don't have to call me Captain. You of all people."

Bootstrap grinned and shook his head, a fond, wry smile on his tired face. "You're Captain on this ship, son. That's the way it has to be." He gestured at the body lying on the deck. "He's dead, but I don't think he's going to move on. Don't know how you want to handle that."

They both looked at the dead man. The old scars on his back attested to a hard life; the newer scars on the man's chest spoke of a hard escape. The blood on his face created a macabre half-mask under absurdly lush brown hair. The gentleness of his face seemed to indicate that violence should have been a stranger to him, but the lines on his forehead, the determined set of his jaw, and the dark circles under his closed eyes indicated that he would never give up, would never surrender.

Bootstrap carefully examined the dead man's face. "Wonder who 'e is. Doesn't look like a pirate or a sailor, does he? Although 'e might look a bit like Jack Sparrow."

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow," Turner replied absentmindedly with quirked lips. "You're right – he doesn't seem a sailor. Although you might be right about him looking like Jack." He peered closer, shot a grin at Bootstrap, and finally shook his head. "Maybe, but I just can't quite see it. I can't imagine Jack being that clean-shaven. Or that clean."

Muffling his own laugh, Bootstrap stepped back and watched as Turner grabbed the limp hand and concentrated his will. His son's power was always impressive to Bootstrap – Davy Jones, if he had owned it, had never used it while Bootstrap served under him. "Wake up, sailor," Will Turner commanded.

Moments stretched before the man shuddered, took a breath, and slowly opened his eyes. Dark brown eyes gazed around the ship, looking sharply at Turner and Bootstrap before the man pulled himself in, as if he were expecting a blow. "What, where..." he croaked painfully in a voice that came from a hoarse and ravaged throat.

Bootstrap tried to reassure him as best he could.

"You're on the Flying Dutchman –" he started, before the man's eyes opened in fear.

"Yes, that's not always a help," Bootstrap continued wryly.

"The Dutchman! But that's the ship of the..." the stranger's voice trailed off.

"The ship of the dead," Will Turner finished the sentence for him. He gazed thoughtfully at the man, and shook his head. "You're a sailor. You have a decision to make – to stay here or go ahead with your comrades. While you are deciding, I have work to do."

Captain Turner strode to the bowsprit of the ship, his eyes closed in concentration. The crew faced the bow respectfully, waiting at attention. A glow slowly formed around Turner as power gathered around him and then shot like a searchlight to the horizon. Apparitions of the slain sailors gathered in the water below him, waiting, watching. There was a sudden green flash, and a light shone from the far horizon. "Go to your rest," the Captain of the Flying Dutchman called, his voice majestic and kind. "The way is there."

Bootstrap heard a low sigh from the slain in the water. With reverent quiet, the forms turned, their awful wounds disappearing as they drifted to the light, faster and faster until they disappeared. The eerie light lessened, and the normal light of the normal sun reappeared.

The crew of the Dutchman watched as the souls found their way. Some shook their heads, some looked with yearning toward the light, and some simply stood at attentive respect until the normal light reappeared. No matter how they chose to show it, they all agreed that it was good to have a purpose again.

The new man gazed yearningly at the light, then closed his eyes and resolutely shook his head. Apparently we have a new recruit, Bootstrap decided. It took a special type of man to refuse to go on.

The eldritch power lessening until it was almost unnoticeable around him, Captain Turner returned to the main deck and breathed a sigh of relief before casting a worried glance at the stranger. "Mr. Turner, get him fixed up, then bring him to my cabin." Shaking his head, he then departed to the captain's quarters in the stern.

"Poor sods," Bootstrap muttered. "All the other sailors are at rest, anyways. This shouldn't have happened to them, though. It's not like the old days – pirates now are just a bunch of murdering thugs. Well, not that we didn't do that... but ya don't need to kill everybody, and you don't need to go after a tiny little cargo like that."

Bootstrap looked at the new recruit, whose eyes were cast down to the polished wooden deck. "Might as well get you fixed up, or settled, or whatever."


	2. The Awful Truth

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney belongs to Sondheim, Tim Burton, and Johnny Depp; Will Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, Doris The Younger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories). And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews!

**Notes: **I'm fudging the sludgy dates for this story - Pirates is moved forwards a bit, and Sweeney Todd is moved back a bit so they meet nicely (well, maybe not so nice...) in the middle.

* * *

**Chapter 02 The Awful Truth**

Benjamin Barker – _no, your name is Sweeney Todd, Barker is an escaped convict _– stared at the sailors at their tasks as he was escorted towards the stern of the ship. They all seemed normal as they peered curiously at him, but they couldn't be! Were they dead? Were they damned? The planks underneath his feet, the bronze and gold-trimmed carvings felt solid to his touch, but this was the Flying Dutchman – was it a ghost as well? He peered at Mr. Turner from under his dripping hair and saw a careworn clean-shaven face that had seen perhaps too much and yet somehow managed to appear kindly. Was he human? Or was there a hint of otherness to him – a stillness too profound to belong to a living man?

Or was this a dream before he took his last breath of life? It wasn't fair! His last memories should be of his wife Lucy, not of the entrails of the first mate of the Dove spilling into the water. He should be remembering the cooing of his baby daughter, not the screams of dying men.

"Am I dead?" he finally gathered the courage to ask. The rasp of his voice sounded wrong to his ears – almost gravelike.

His escort paused before a door that was labeled Sickbay in an old-fashioned script, then opened the door to reveal a large cabin. Bright sunlight was streaming through its clean portholes. A long wooden table was mounted in the middle of the floor, and dusty bottles were arranged neatly on equally dusty shelves. Rolls of yellowing bandages and cloths were stacked on the table. Cubbies and drawers filled most of the far wall, and curiously, a large mirror was hanging on the wall. Barker saw that its glass was clean, unbroken, and brightly polished-as if it were highly prized and used often.

"Ah, well... yes," Turner hedged as he helped Barker onto the table. Another sailor, grey-haired and stern, silently appeared in the doorway. "Ogilvey, the Captain wants this one mended up right away."

"I thought there were no survivors?" Ogilvey peered at Barker carefully, then looked sidewise at Turner. "Right, Bootstrap. You can tell the Captain that I checked all the bodies – no messages this time." He grabbed a bowl and towels and pulled an oil lamp closer. The light hurt Barker's eyes, and he winced as he pondered what type of message you'd put on a body to deliver to the ship of the dead.

_Some things were probably better not known. _

"Jack's not likely to try that again..." Bootstrap muttered, then paused uncertainly. "Or would he?"

"Who can tell what Jack Sparrow thinks? None of us could. And you served with him the longest," Ogilvey replied, seemingly forgetting that Barker was there. "I've got work to do – and it's not as if I get to do this every day."

"Captain wants to see him when you're finished," Bootstrap ordered before he left.

The two of them spoke as if they'd served together for a long time, Barker mused. How long could that have been? From their manner, they spoke their mind and didn't stand on their ranks.

Dressed in simple clothes from decades in the past, Ogilvey had a stern face, salt and pepper hair and an overgrown striped black and white beard that desperately needed a trim. Do the dead have to shave? came a whimsical thought before Barker could stop it.

Ogilvey was examining Barker as if he was a wooden puppet instead of a flesh-and-blood injured man. "'Cept for that head, you look in good shape. Better than some that come here. Got your guts inside you still. Makes it easier. And that's the likely cause right there," Ogilvey muttered as he efficiently, if not gently, wiped the blood from Barker's face and head and started probing his scalp.

"Likely cause?" Barker asked, dreading the answer. He had already surreptitiously examined his body in the mirror, and was relieved to see there were no cuts or gaping wounds peeking through the rags that were once his shirt. Yes, all his innards were still where they were supposed to be. He forced the image of the Dove's first mate from his mind, and absurdly thought that Lucy wouldn't appreciate having to mend him with her needle.

"What killed you. You'll probably have a mark there for the rest of your existence," Ogilvey answered. "Hold still – I haven't needed to fix someone up for awhile, and my skills are a bit rusty." Quickly removing Barker's shirt, he started to painstakingly remove splinters from his back and torso.

_What?_ Barker felt the blood drain from his face in an instant, then felt his head – it was solid. He felt his arm, and pinched it. It hurt. He pinched it harder – it hurt more. _I feel pain._ _I'm not dead. I will not be dead. I will return to Lucy. I will go home._ This desperate chant calmed the panic forming in his heart. "No matter what, I will make it home," he whispered, as he had so many times over the long dark years.

Ogilvey looked sharply at him, then shook his head. He finished his work (when had that piece of decking punctured his shoulder? Barker wondered bemusedly) before standing up. "You're as fixed as I can get you," Ogilvey told him, rummaging through the cabin until he found an old-fashioned white shirt and breeches. No shoes – there was no need for them given the heat. "You'll want to change, no doubt. After that, I'll take you to the Captain."

Barker quietly and quickly changed, rolling up the sea and blood-soaked rags that had been his clothes into a neat ball before he realized that there would be no whip here for slowness, untidiness, or any other -ness. What use was whipping and flogging on the ship of the dead? he thought wildly before he firmly tamped down that thought.

* * *

"Captain, he's ready as I can get 'im," Ogilvey said into the open doorway of the Captain's cabin.

"Thank you. Send him in," came a quiet voice in response. Barker entered cautiously and curiously. The Captain's quarters were spacious, and the furniture well-polished and large for a ship of this size. The linens on the surprisingly large bed against the hull were neatly folded, the drawers underneath closed and the handles polished. The brass trim on the fixtures shone, and light streamed through the windows. The large wooden desk was finely carved, the large drawers decorated with brass trim and handles. Parchment charts were neatly rolled in their holders, and the desk was littered with papers. Quills were still in the inkwell and a half-finished letter was spread open.

Captain Turner approached him with one hand held out in greeting and a welcoming smile on his face. Should a captain of the ship of the dead be so young and alive? Barker wondered. A blue scarf was wrapped around his long brown hair, and his mustache and goatee were untidy and ill-trimmed. Turner was dressed in the same motley garb as the rest of the crew, although his dark red shirt was made of silk and the breeches were finely-woven cotton. The dark red shirt was opened in the heat, and Barker found himself staring at the scar that crossed Turner's tanned chest over his heart.

"Sit down, Mr...?" Turner motioned to one of the two cushioned chairs next to a small table.

"T-Todd. Sweeney Todd," Barker responded after a moment. _R__emember that name!_ he commanded himself automatically.

The captain quirked an eyebrow as he examined Barker. "Your real name, please. That is, if you remember it?"

"B-Barker. Benjamin Barker." He couldn't prevent a truthful reply. "So this is the Flying Dutchman?" he found himself asking._ Fool, do not speak until you know the score!_

Captain Turner sighed. "I thought we had settled that. Yes, this is the Flying Dutchman. I am her captain. Mr. Turner is my first mate – he pulled you from the water. I'm sorry, you're the only one left from your ship. Your fellow sailors have gone ahead of you."

So the nightmare image was real then. "And your crew... are they... damned?" _Am I damned?_ He sorely wished for something to drink, even the contaminated swill that he'd been given as a prisoner, anything to make this easier.

Turner shook his head. "No. Some of the crew are working off a debt. Some are free, but stay for their own reasons. Some have many years to go before they can be freed. The dead and dying that are found by the Dutchman either go ahead, or fear death and so serve time on her. Living sailors are sent back to the world, as close to rescue as I can manage."

He looked sadly at Barker. "You died. That head wound – it's not really survivable."

Barker's heart thudded, stopped, and started again. The world spun around him as the truth hit him.

"I'm sorry. Sometimes I... forget what it was like." Turner's voice softened and he rubbed the scar on his chest.

Barker grabbed the arm of the chair he'd dropped into, gripping it so tightly he could feel the grain in the wood. "I can't be dead! I'm talking to you, I feel pain – I feel this ship! It must be real!"

_Please, this once, let this be a hallucination – a dream, a nightmare. Please, don't let it be real!_

A hollow chuckle sounded from Turner and he shook his head. "Believe me, I know much more about this than you. Being dead does not always mean being an apparition. If you stab me I will bleed. Briefly. This is real, I am real, my crew is real. Perhaps you should think of it as a state of being dead but not deceased, as a friend of mine once put it."

"The fact of the matter is that you died before you were picked up. I'm sorry, but there really is no other way to put it. I simply called your attention to that fact when I woke you," Turner continued. "You should go on, Benjamin. All sailors must."

"But what if I don't?" Barker asked, eyes downcast to the decking.

_Let them think you're weak, that you've given in. For now._

"You will remain on the Dutchman until you decide to move on. That is the way it must be. If you wish to move on, I have no reason to keep you here," Captain Turner replied tersely. "You have much to think about. You'll be assigned a bunk, and we'll see what your duties will be. Are you literate? Good, we'll find some use for that. Even after all the time they've had on this ship, you'd be amazed at how many of the crew can barely sign their name."

Barker stumbled out of the cabin onto the main deck. His face was stiff as stone but his emotions were roiling inside. He didn't remember turning away from the Captain and nodding inane acquiescence. He didn't remember slipping out of the cabin after being dismissed. All that he could remember was the black anger rising in him. Two choices, and none of them were what he wanted.


	3. Ships Duties and Troubles

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney/Benjamin Barker belongs to Sondheim, Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, Doris The Younger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories). And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews!

**

* * *

Chapter 03 Ship Duties and Troubles**

Intercepting Barker as he emerged from the Captain's cabin, Bootstrap noticed the clenched fists. Seems the talk didn't go too well, he thought. He'll just have to adjust. We all did.

"Well, Mr. ... Barker, is it? I'm to show you where you'll sleep." As Barker lifted his eyes in surprise, Bootstrap added, "There are no secrets on a ship, especially this one. But we all keep our own counsel."

A quick peek at the new recruit revealed that even though his manner was deferent, his eyes were hooded and his face masked. Wonder how long it will take him to adjust, Bootstrap thought as he steered Barker around the main deck, down the hatchway and onto the gun deck.

As they walked by, crewmembers paused in their tasks of scrubbing the deck and checking the ropes to survey Barker. One or two shook their heads. Changes on top of changes, Bootstrap thought as he guided Barker onto the gun deck. Barker's not the only one that will have to adjust.

The sun shone through the gunports and through the deck prisms embedded in the main deck., and hammocks were neatly put away amongst the twelve-pound cannons, ready to be hung for use. "We don't have as big a crew as Davy Jones did, but we all decided to sleep in bunks, and share the cabins," Bootstrap explained. "Many of us started off as pirates, and the old customs still are followed."

He waved his arm toward the port side of the gun deck. "The bunks over there aren't in use. Select whichever one you like. When you have anything to store, you can put it in that chest over there."

Barker lifted his eyes from the polished deck. "What could I possibly find to keep on this ship?" he asked dully.

"You'd be surprised. When we find a ship, we grab their cargo after we check for the survivors. No sense letting things go to waste." He looked speculatively at Barker. "I don't suppose you're any good in the kitchen?"

"I can cook food well enough to eat it, but I wouldn't offer it to others," Barker confessed, puzzled. His eyebrows rose as he peered at Bootstrap. "Do the men here actually eat?"

"Well, we don't have to, but it's a civilizing influence," Bootstrap confided. "We're getting a bit tired of what Old Haddy calls food – I think he's forgotten what real food tastes like. Rum now, he remembers rum really well."

Barker shook his head, and looked straight at Bootstrap, almost daringly. "What will my duties be? I'm not a sailor – and wouldn't I'd be more in the way than useful to your crew?"

Bootstrap sighed. "Tell the truth, you're the first recruit we've had under our current Captain. He's been changing things from the old ways, but some of the men have been here too long, and they've forgotten what being human was like." Wiping his hair, he shrugged. "No doubt you'll hear about Davy Jones in time. But the fact of the matter is, we need to be reminded about what being a man is like. The Captain was the last man to join the ship, but it's hard for him to do that. Captain must always be a bit apart from the crew, especially when it's this ship and this crew."

Aghast in spite of himself, Barker asked, "So how long have you served on this ship?"

"When I was found by the Dutchman, I'd been cursed and I was at the bottom of the ocean," Bootstrap said with a bitter smile. "Long story. I had nothing to lose, so I joined the crew. I think I was here for maybe ten years before... You don't pay much attention to time when time doesn't affect you."

Bootstrap sighed. Some things you don't forget, no matter how much you want to. "Nearly ten years ago, Davy Jones was defeated and ... well, he went on, and my son William Turner took over. I'll stay with the ship until he leaves, or as long as it takes."

Assessing the man in front of him, Bootstrap decided that it was best that he know how things lay. "There's a lot of worry on this ship right now – things will be changing soon, and the crew'll have to adjust again. It's just your luck that you were picked up now. In the meantime, we need to think where you'd best be. What skills do you have?"

Barker paused. "I... have performed field labor, construction, and ... work of that sort." His hands clenched into fists once more as his face darkened and his eyes flashed angrily. "In my former life, I was a barber."

Bootstrap raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. From what you don't say, I think I know part of your story, Barker. You might be better off here after all.

"A barber? We haven't had those services for quite a long time." He saw a wisp of interest on Barker's face. "We'll set you up in sickbay then–and if you know basic aid, that would be better. Ogilvey's good, but his knowledge is a long time out of date."

After ordering Barker to acquaint himself with the ship and then sickbay, Bootstrap watched Barker walk across the gun deck and down the hatchway to the cargo hold. He may be quiet, but he's seething underneath, Bootstrap mused. I remember being like that, when I thought Will was dead. I don't know how this will work out, but it's not like he has much of a choice. Not like we have much of a choice either.

* * *

Barker wandered aimlessly across the gun deck, considering his instructions. Acquaint myself with the ship... _and look for anything I can use to get off of it_. Using a hard-earned instinct he found places that he could hide, places that the crew looked like they'd ignore. He slipped down the hatchway, into the cargo hold – and was hit by stale air. There was no food stored here in the hold, no animals – the few portholes shone dim sunlight onto glistening stacks of pirate treasure.,

Gold, silver, pearls, gems—all gathered into untidy piles. There was more wealth spread in front of Barker's eyes than he'd ever seen before, had even tried to imagine. Coins of many nations were piled onto slimy coils of gold and silver chains covered with lichen and mold. The silver was tarnished and the gemstones grimy. He saw a king's ransom heaped like a rubbish tip.

There were no locks or bars here, no guards–and no reason for them. This was the treasure of the Flying Dutchman, and the Dutchman's crew had no place to spend it. They had nothing to purchase, no services to obtain, no vanity to uphold. He picked up a matched strand of white pearls that were fastened with a golden clasp hundreds of years old. With wealth like this he could set himself up in London, protect Lucy and Johanna, purchase anything he wanted. He could buy and sell Judge Turpin...

If he could ever make it back. If he was anywhere but here. If he wasn't trapped on the ship of the dead.

Barker dropped the pearls onto the pile and let them lie there. Priceless, but worthless at the same time.

Climbing back up to the main deck, Barker paid only slight attention to the rest of the crew, barely acknowledged their looks and mutters. _Wait to see what happens before you try to make friends again. Remember what happened the last time?_ He wasn't a sailor –the sea had always been either an obstacle or just another type of ground to cross. And these sailors – what use would a man with only months of experience be to them? A barber–it looked like he would finally be a barber again. On the Flying Dutchman.

As he pondered his situation, sweet images of his Lucy filled his thoughts. Her bright yellow hair shining under her bonnet, her blue (_or were they green?_) eyes sparkling as she spoke softly to him in a murmur that lulled his racing mind. He found himself by the foremast towards the bow, staring out from the rail at the vast sea. He was free of his captors, but still as much a prisoner as ever. He was a dead man imprisoned on the Flying Dutchman, but somehow he had to get home to Lucy and Johanna.

As the sun began to lower and the sky began to darken, Barker saw nothing of his present, lost in his thoughts of the past. The Dutchman's crew worked around him, studied him, and for a while ignored him.

Finally a raised voice broke into his musings. Without a second thought, Barker slipped into the shadows at the forecastle, doing his best to be unnoticeable. The crew seemed human, but there was a sense of otherworldly desperation to them.

"Look, what I want to know is-what happens to us?" The bald dark-skinned sailor standing by the mast was shouting vehemently as a crowd gathered around him. Gold chains hung under his open vest. "The Dutchman needs a captain – what happens if Turner leaves?"

"Don't you mean 'when', Piper? It's been ten years, and if his love's heart is true, he can leave. That's how it's always been," retorted Ogilvey sternly. Some of the other crewmembers agreed with him and stared daggers at Piper.

Another sailor barged in. "An' what if he don't? 'Member wha' happened with Davy Jones? Do ye want t'see that happen to Captain Turner? Do ye want t'return to what happned before – becoming part o' the ship, cursed and damned, waitin' for any release?" As the short sailor crossed his arms, the stocking cap he wore over his grey hair gave him a sinister yet comical air.

"If the captain leaves, someone has to take the job," Piper argued, his Caribbean accent becoming more apparent.

"Like you, Piper? You've been here a long time – longer than most of us." Ogilvey paused for a moment and then insisted, "Captain Turner will leave – his woman will be true to him, Haddy."

"Hah!" Haddy spat on the deck. "Like Calypso was true to Davy Jones? He loved 'er – I 'member that. He really loved 'er. But she wasn't there waitin' for him when the time came. She spurned him – and we suffered 'cause of it. All o' us, including Davy Jones." Haddy swung his fist against the wood of the rail. "I want t'be a man. I want to stay a man. I don't want to go back to what I was. Do ye?"

What? Barker's mouth fell open. Weren't the crew really men? Then what were they?

"What do you mean, she won't be true? What about those letters that Jack Sparrow sent from her? If she was going to betray him, would she have done that?" Ogilvey demanded, strokingd his unruly beard.

"Only none of us know what she wrote!" another sailor piped in silkily. "Jack sent those letters to the Captain on the body of a dead man. You remember how upset the Captain was then. But maybe it wasn't because of the delivery–maybe it was because Jack was seeing his woman. You know how Jack Sparrow is with the ladies – maybe he and she –"

Again Barker felt the knife going through his heart. T_he Judge, staring at Lucy, the Beadle beside him... and Lucy, so alone..._

"Belay that, Quittance, or I'll have your hide. And I'll keep having it even as it grows back!" Bootstrap Bill Turner growled. Barker had been concentrating so much on what the sailors were saying that the First Mate caught him by surprise. Judging from the crew's reaction, they were too. His voice was no longer kind and mild – he growled as if he would love to rip the sailors apart. "I'll have no words against Jack Sparrow. And I'll hear nothing against Elizabeth Turner!"

The sailors grew quiet and cast their eyes down, and then Piper jerked his bald head up to look Bootstrap in the eyes. "You're First Mate, Bootstrap. And your son is the captain, sir. And you've only spent a few short years on the Dutchman. You didn't gamble your years away like the rest of us did. _Sir_. I've been here fifty years, and I don't want to be here another fifty. _Sir_. And if Captain Turner leaves, who's to say what will happen to us? What we'll become again. And, may I remind you, what you had become before your son took command!"

Barker held his breath. To sail on the Flying Dutchman was a nightmare, but he'd never imagined something like this. Would this be mutiny? What could he do if it came down to a fight? Would there be any chance to escape?

Bootstrap didn't flinch or look away from the furious sailor. "I said I'll have no more talk of that! Do you believe the Captain thinks so little of you that he hasn't considered this? Do you actually think that he'd leave you with nothing? Or to become what you once were?" His voice grew gentler, more diplomatic. "I'll have you know that he has thought about it, and he's trying to figure out what to do. No matter what you did before serving under him – and he remembers all of that, believe me, he remembers – you are his crew, and he will not abandon you."

"How can you be sure?" Piper asked suspiciously, seemingly mollified but tense.

The First Mate's voice was even again, the iron rod hidden beneath the velvet tones. "You've served under him for ten years. Has he cast you out? Has he punished anyone who didn't deserve it? Has he even threatened you with the power that he has? Remember, he was granted strange powers by Calypso. Has he ever raised them against you?"

"And those that have paid and wanted to move on, he's let them go. He'll do the same for any of you who want to move on. Just wait, and give him time to think of something. He won't do you wrong."

Haddy shuffled his feet. "He's your son, 'course you believe him. Why should we?"

Bootstrap stared at him icily. "Because he's not Davy Jones, he's Captain William Turner. And that should be enough." He half-turned, then stopped and ordered softly. "Go back to your duties. I won't report this little discussion to the Captain. He might not completely understand. He's only been here ten years, you see."

Bootstrap paused as he passed by the forecastle , meeting Barker's eyes and giving him a long sharp look, then turned his head to motion towards the cabins. Before Barker left, he saw Bootstrap turn away to view the waves of the vast sea in silence.


	4. You Could Be a Barber Again

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney/Benjamin Barker belongs to Sondheim, Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, Doris The Younger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories). And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews!

Sweeney's not happy on the Dutchman - but the Dutchman's crew have problems to deal with as well. Next chapter will see an appearance by Jack Sparrow, so stay tuned.

* * *

**Chapter 04 You Could Be a Barber Again**

Barker waited until the men had left before he emerged from his hiding place behind the capstan. These men truly are damned, he thought. They were prisoners as much as he was – and Captain Turner was a jailer as much as a Captain. Bootstrap obviously knew how much Barker had overheard... what kind of trouble had Barker brought on himself?

What would remaining on the Dutchman would do to him? Make him afraid to move forward, and dread the past, and stay forever on the ship, never changing? Or would he change horribly, become something that wasn't a man?

_Didn't that happen to you already?_ a voice inside him asked. _You're not the barber that was sent away from London. You're an escaped prisoner from Australia, and we remember what you had to do to survive. What you had to do to flee. What would Lucy think of that? You're not the husband she had, and you can never go back to what you were. Benjamin Barker might as well be dead._

He contemplated his future and shuddered. Trapped on this ship, forced to stay, never seeing London, never seeing Lucy, never seeing Johanna grow up. Or moving forward – dying - leaving Lucy and Johanna alone and never knowing what had become of him.

_No! I will get back to London_. _No matter what I have to do to get there._ The fury that rose in Barker's heart astounded him, scared him, and… heartened him. If he could feel so strongly, he couldn't truly be dead, could he?

Walking quickly to sickbay, he lit the lamps beside the mirror and peered at himself. His cuts and bruises were already healing and fading. Was that one of the benefits of being on a ship of the dead? But his hair had changed – a streak of white hair now grew from where he'd received the wound – _a killing blow _- on his head. It wasn't a wound any more – it was a scar, a new scar to match the many others he'd acquired in the past fifteen years.

Barker wiped his face as if to wipe away his thoughts and the sights, and felt a rasp of stubble on his chin. He'd always preferred to be clean-shaven, and had tried to remain so, even as a convict. Partly from professional pride, and partly from the certain knowledge that a lush beard was beyond him, and whatever grew on his chin would be unsightly and scraggly.

Where was that razor? Rummaging through the cubbies on the far wall, he finally found the folded razor that he'd seen in one of the many drawers. He picked it up and fingered the handle. It was well kept, no weaknesses, and the blade was sharp, well made, balanced – a good razor. Not like the fine set that Lucy had given him–chased silver, polished to a shine that took his breath away every time he used them–but a serviceable razor nonetheless.

Finding a chunk of soap and a chipped shaving mug, he added water and deftly whisked up a lather. He applied the foam to his face, and felt the pleasure of a razor touching his skin. Smoothly, quickly, with little force and much finesse he polished off his stubble. Wiping his blade, he examined himself in the mirror again. One thing hadn't been taken from him – he hadn't lost his skill.

"You do that well, lad," came the soft voice of Ogilvey from behind him. Fortunately the razor was well away from his skin, or the start that Ogilvey gave him would have added another wound to Barker's face. "Been awhile since someone here's been good at barbering."

Barker couldn't help it – Ogilvey's beard desperately needed a trim. And this was something he could do in a trance. "Would you care for a shave, sir?" He grandly gestured to the chair next to the examining table, and refreshed his soap.

"Thank ye kindly, and I would. A bit of a trim I think." Ogilvey stroked his unkempt beard as he sat down and presented his chin to Barker.

As Barker assessed Ogilvey's face carefully he tried to remember how he'd dealt with customers in the past. "Perhaps a bit more than a trim – that beard is striking, and it should be shaped to enhance your appearance." As he spread lather on Ogilvey's face, the Dutchman drifted away from Barker's thoughts. He remembered his shop, the sunlight streaming brightly in the windows, Lucy's favorite yellow flowers (_gillyflowers, or were they daisies?_) in vases, and his wife's proud smile as she watched him work. From the bakery below, the smells of Mrs. Lovett's pies drifted up.

Scrape, wipe, scrape, wipe – a new angle here, a bit of a flourish there, and it was done. "Why don't you look at yourself, sir?" he asked as Ogilvey eagerly peered into the mirror, running his fingers over his neatly trimmed beard and sideburns.

"Well done – I don't think my beard's ever looked better," Ogilvey exclaimed. He stared at himself a bit longer, lost in thought. "No, not even before – I think I'd remember that much. Or maybe not – generally I was shaved on shore, and there were other things on my mind then." A quick smile flashed in his stern face. "It's good to have something nice like this on the Dutchman."

Barker wiped the blade on a cloth as he ducked his head. Surprisingly, hearing somebody else's praise was almost painful to his ears. "It looks like I've become the ship's barber. I'd be pleased to shave anyone on the ship. It's the least I can do for you, the crew, and your captain. To tell you the truth, I'm not much of a sailor."

Ogilvey chuckled. "We'd noticed that, lad. But you were serving as a sailor, so we could pick you up. The Captain wants us to rescue those that are drowning if we can, but they don't stay here. No, lad, it's clear you're not a sailor – you're not at ease on the water. There's no shame in that. But it makes it harder to be here, doesn't it?"

He stood up and gave Barker a long look. "There are tales of those that escaped the Dutchman, but... they're only tales. Jack Sparrow did, but he had to die to do it, and then his sorry self had to be brought back from Davy Jones' Locker." Ogilvey shook his head before leaving.

Alone with his thoughts, Barker mechanically arranged the chair next to the lights so he'd have the best illumination, brushed the hair from the chair, and wiped his blade. He searched for a cloth in the drawers, shook it out, and cleaned the table before he allowed himself to think again.

_Only death could free him from the Dutchman. To escape meant to die. _

A knock on the door wakened him from his daze. Old Haddy stood in the doorway with his stocking cap in hand, grey hair and beard wild and unruly. "I saw Ogilvey – would ye mind..." he asked, obviously embarrassed.

Barker smiled and ducked his head, motioning to the chair with a flourish. Before the night was far advanced, two more crewmen had requested his services, and he'd been given a silver ring as a tip. Without exception, every one of his customers stared at themselves in the large mirror and smiled joyfully, as if they hadn't seen themselves neatly trimmed and shaved in a long time. Or were they remembering other things, Barker wondered.

He'd finished shaving Haddy and Wyvern (whose beard was unnervingly similar to clumps of lichen) before he realized how easy, how comfortable it all was. Holding a razor felt at home, was as close to home as he ever could be on the Flying Dutchman. He could be a barber again for as long as he wanted to be. As long as he could imagine. Until he decided to move on. Until he died.

He had to wait for the trembling in his hands to stop before he could start shaving Piper.

* * *

Later that night, Barker couldn't stop fidgeting in his hammock. It was comfortable enough – he'd slept in worse places – but it was still a trap. He could imagine himself years in the future as the ship's barber. On the ship of the dead, which of his other skills could he use? Pulling teeth – mending cuts and setting bones?

But on this ship, would he become less than human–turn into whatever it was that Piper was afraid of being? He could remember Lucy's face, her green eyes (_or were they blue_) that had gazed so sweetly at him, the yellow curls under her bonnet. Johanna's cries and coos, like that of a turtledove. What did they look like now? How had they survived while he was gone? And Judge Turpin – was that evil man still alive (_and __was Lucy with him_)?

He tried to force himself to think clearly. What would he have done if he had managed to make it back to London? He would have had to remain Sweeney Todd– he couldn't have chanced having people recognize him. Not if Turpin was still an influential judge, and not if Beadle Bamford was still Turpin's lapdog. And after he found Lucy and Johanna –then what?

Not that any of that mattered. All his hopes for the future were for naught. He was trapped on the Flying Dutchman, and he was just as dead as the rest of them (and maybe if he repeated that over and over for months he'd begin to believe it). Somehow he would have to bid Lucy and Johanna farewell. Maybe in the afterlife he could finally find them.

The rhythmic rocking of the Dutchman lulled him, and before long Barker's eyes closed. The sea smells gave way to the earthy odors of London.

_He was in front of his barbershop, its windows closed and shuttered. The streets were full of people who passed around him as if he wasn't there. Suddenly there was a noise from behind the windows – the shutters burst open, and flowers (roses and carnations and baby's breath) spilled out onto the street. But they were dead and dying even as they hit the ground. The sound of laughter – one laugh sweet and familiar and the other cruel and mocking – from the windows. A baby's cry that called to him – Father, Father! He raced up the stairs, trying to burst through the locked door. I'm here, my love, my sweet! Daddy's come home. Lucy, I'm here – I'll protect you! _

_But the door was locked and he couldn't break through. The curtains on the window of the door dropped, and he saw forms inside. A small, graceful, sweet form – oh, Lucy! And a large, almost serpentine form – Turpin. Together. The laughter from Turpin chilled his blood as Lucy tried to run, gasping. Or was she laughing too?_

_Barker pressed himself against the glass, trying to force his way through. But his hands didn't feel right – they looked as if they were becoming part of the door, and were those barnacles on his legs? What kind of monster was he turning into? The door faded away, the landing under his feet became the deck of the Flying Dutchman, and the sails filled the air as the shop disappeared. _

Barker opened his eyes with a gasp, then quickly darted a look to see if anyone had noticed._Never show weakness_. _Not even here_. The other hammocks were silent and still as the grave, even as the crew rested. No snores, no shifting of hammocks as bodies changed positions, just a still and quiet slumber.

It was a long time before he could close his eyes and not see the shop or hear the laughter. He fell into a dreamless unconsciousness that was not quite sleep.


	5. A Chance at Freedom

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney/Benjamin Barker belongs to Sondheim, Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, Doris The Younger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories).

And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews! Please - let me know what you think - even a simple comment means a lot to a writer.

This is a crossover - which means that both sides have their own problems and agendas. They may run in concert, or like what is happening here, collide.

* * *

**Chapter 05 – A Chance for Freedom**

The next morning Barker found that he was the last to rise. With a groan, he rolled out of the hammock. He still felt drained, but oddly, not tired, even though he knew he'd rested bare hours. He felt like he should be hungry, but no food appealed to him and he had no appetite.

The crew was quietly performing their duties, not looking at each other. Haddy nodded a greeting to Barker, and Piper inclined his now-smooth bald head to him.

No ship's bells rang for meals. Of course, why would they? Do the dead really need to eat? For lack of anything else to do, he went to sickbay in search of work – even scrubbing the deck would be better than mulling over his present or even worse, his past.

He had polished all the bottles and was placing them back onto the shelves when he heard the shout from Ogilvey. "Ahoy, ship sighted!"

A ship? What would happen now? Barker raced out of the cabin. _Was this a chance to escape?_ He ran to the rail and peered across the water. In the near distance there was a black ship with black sails. Surprisingly, it had neither approached nor fled, but simply paced the Dutchman.

"Hoist the colors and hail the Black Pearl!" commanded Captain Turner as he climbed up the mainmast and waved his scarf. "Jack Sparrow's come to call!"

Around Barker the crew raced to the rails, waving and yelling greetings across the waves as the Black Pearl grew closer. She was flying a pirate flag – and her crew was at the rails too, waving and yelling.

_What kind of captain hails the Flying Dutchman? _

"Lower a boat to the Pearl," the First Mate ordered, even as the jolly boat was readied. He tapped Barker on the shoulder. "Come along – we're going to see what the Pearl has for us." Barker climbed clumsily into the boat as it was swung over the rail, and Bootstrap leapt in nimbly carrying a small chest. Barker looked around, but it seemed that no one else from the crew would be going.

Manning the oars, Barker and Bootstrap started to row to the Black Pearl. Barker managed to keep up, even though he wasn't used to rowing a large and heavy jolly boat. In fact, the boat practically sped across the water even with only two people rowing it. As they approached the Black Pearl, Barker saw that not only was it painted black, in sections it actually seemed to be charred. But it _was_ manned by living men – could he manage to slip aboard? Only Bootstrap was there to stop him from jumping ship.

As they drew nearer, a rope ladder was lowered from the deck, and a peculiar-looking man quickly weaved his way down. His clothes were motley in color – a loose white shirt, a striped scarf around his waist, and crossed belts that held both a sword and a pistol. His long dark locks were braided with trinkets and bound with a bright red scarf. Eyes rimmed with black looked down at them blearily and calculatingly. His scraggly mustache joined a scragglier beard—they both screamed for a shave, while the rest of his body screamed even louder for a bath. In every way, he was the exotic picture of a pirate, much more so than anyone on the Flying Dutchman. "Ahoy, me hearties! How fares the Dutchman?" he asked in an slurred voice.

Surprisingly, Bootstrap stopped the jolly boat a little way from the Pearl. Weren't they going aboard this ship, Barker wondered. Or could the Dutchman's crew even go aboard?

"Ah, Captain Jack Sparrow, the Dutchman fares the same as always!" Bootstrap replied heartily.

"I'd invite you up, Bootstrap, but me new crew's a bit scared of the Dutchman," the pirate replied apologetically, as if he was merely regretting being out of drink at a party. "And I'm more than happy to stay off the Dutchman, even with Will as Captain."

"Understood. How fares the Pearl?" Bootstrap replied. "I see you're riding low – good cargoes?"

"I have seen the error of my wicked ways, Bill Turner. The golden age of piracy is coming to an end – it's becoming folly to attack merchant ships," Jack replied. Somehow even though the ladder swung with the waves, Jack seemed to remain still.

Grinning wickedly, he continued, "So I've turned to smuggling. Of course, that involves finding a cargo to smuggle, which sometimes involves locating a ship with the cargo that we want to smuggle. And then we have to take that cargo from the ship, but other than that, we're honest smugglers now."

Bootstrap echoed that grin. "And what kind of cargoes have you found?"

"Ah, is the Dutchman short on rations? Can the Dutchman be that short on rations, even now? I don't think I want to find out – in fact, I insist on waiting to find out. As long as possible, as a matter of fact. Oh, cargoes – we did acquire some rum and some fruit – pineapple, I think. And some silks, and other things you wouldn't be interested in, like gold and cannon, and silver, and what-not like that," Jack replied. "And you wouldn't believe who offered up these beauties. The East India Company will be waiting a bit longer for some of their cargoes," he finished with a triumphant smirk.

Bootstrap laughed. "Ah, serves them right. If you could spare any rum and the fruit, we'd be more than happy to take it off your hands." He held up the chest. "Of course we'll pay for it – the Captain insists." The chest made its way to Jack's hands and into a net that was hastily flung next to Jack before being whisked away just as hastily.

"Mr. Gibbs, that goes into my cabin, tout de suite," Jack bellowed. "And load up the extra cargo for these fine gentlemen here." Jack peered closely at Barker, apparently noticing him for the first time. "I don't know you. I don't know him – why don't I know him?" he asked Bootstrap plaintively.

Bootstrap shrugged and gave Jack a long look. "New recruit," he said simply.

Barker barely noticed the byplay between the two men – the Pearl was so close, he could almost touch her. Freedom! Could he free himself from the Dutchman? Dare he try? He tried to shift his weight inconspicuously. Maybe if he clung to the ladder – could he scramble up the side?_ So close, so close_... His hand reached out carefully, stealthily.

Captain Jack Sparrow lowered himself closer to the jolly boat and examined Barker carefully. "I'm sorry," he said, still peering at Barker. "You look familiar somehow." He came so close to Barker that the smell of his breath overpowered the smell of the sea.

As the pirate climbed back a bit up the ladder, Barker shifted his weight, and stealthily started to reach to the ladder.

_Almost there..._

A hard shove pushed him back to the boat and sprawled him against the gunwale.

"The Pearl's not for you," Bootstrap said roughly but kindly. The jolly boat rocked gently, much more gently than it should have.

_No, I could have made it! _Black anger made Barker's hands shake, and he ducked his head to hide the fury. His hands clenched into fists and his breath hissed through his teeth before he managed to regain control.

"Dutchman's got too much magic on her to combine it with that," Jack said softly to Bootstrap, examining Barker curiously. "That wouldn't be good for any of us, mate."

"Aye," Bootstrap sighed. "But what can we do? Any word from Elizabeth?"

Jack smiled wickedly. "I have not seen the fair Pirate King myself, but Barbossa says that she waits impatiently for Will. So impatiently that she threatened to take over Barbossa's ship to sail to the Dutchman herself. Barbossa was not amused. I was, though," he added lightly.

"Mr. Gibbs, was I not amused at that?" he yelled to the deck.

"Aye sir, we were all amused by that," came the answering shout from above.

A net filled with goods was swung down to the jolly boat, and Jack shifted aside to be narrowly missed by the bundle. "Sadly, I don't think I can visit long. It seems that the ship that contributed this cargo would like to have it back. Not that they could ever catch the Pearl, but still," he shrugged. "I had to let Will know how things lay."

Bootstrap nodded. "And William thanks you for it. Soon you'll be swapping tales with him."

Jack nimbly swung up the ladder. "That's up to the lady, isn't it?" With a shout the ladder was pulled up, and the Black Pearl began to move away.

_Freedom... so close, so close..._ Barker stared at the departing ship, yearningly.

"Back to the Dutchman, now." Eying Barker worriedly, Bootstrap picked up the oars and motioned Barker to do the same.

* * *

Back on the Flying Dutchman, Barker was the first to climb the rope ladder, then was shoved aside as the crew hauled the cargo to the deck. Casks of rum tumbled from the net, and crates revealed a strange spiny fruit. Piper grabbed one and held it to his face, sniffing deeply. "A pineapple! Oh, I've missed this." A grin appeared on his dark features as the rest of the crew grinned and laughed over the rum.

Quietly and quickly Captain Turner appeared on deck. His face broke into a grin as his first mate reported Jack's news. "We'll celebrate tonight, men." Then Bootstrap whispered something to the Captain, and Barker found himself under scrutiny again.

Barker ducked his head and stared stonily at the deck. What could they do to him – flog him? That was nothing new. Drag him overboard? What could he do, die? He almost laughed at the thought.

"Tried to jump onto the Pearl, and when he couldn't... Jack noticed it too. That type of anger is... well, it's almost a madness. I know," Bootstrap whispered. "Don't know how long it will last, and now... well, whoever deals with him will have their hands full." Barker gave no indication he overheard the soft whispers.

Captain Turner nodded. "He stayed for a reason. What could it be?"

"He's not afraid of dying. There's something he needs to do," Bootstrap muttered. "He had the grit to escape from wherever he was... can't be easy for him to be here."

"Determination can take you very far... but not off the Dutchman, I fear," Turner responded. He paused in thought for a few moments, then turned to Barker and ordered, "Meet me in my quarters with your shaving gear in five minutes." His normally mild voice cracked with command.

Without looking up from the deck, Barker nodded, and silently went to sickbay. While he gathered the shaving cup, brush, and cloth, he tried to prepare himself for whatever ordeal lay in store for him in the captain's quarters.

A soft knock on the closed door, and Barker entered at the Captain's quiet invitation.

Turner closed the door and gave Barker a small and assessing smile. "I would like you to give me a shave," he said as he sat down on the chair next to a desk now cleared of maps and papers. "Elizabeth remembers me as more clean-shaven."

If he's going to interrogate me, why let me have a razor? Oh, yes, what can I do? Kill him? Barker thought wildly. He'd expected punishment or discipline... not conversation. Perhaps he should start with a question of his own?

"Elizabeth... she's your wife?" he asked, picking up the shaving cup and whipping the soap into creamy foam. Unexpectedly, his chest grew tight with envy and fury. For a moment he could not trust himself to utter a word, and he swallowed before he managed to continue in a somewhat normal tone. "How?" he whispered, carefully spreading the foam over the captain's scraggly beard and beginning to shave with great care.

"I married Elizabeth nine years, eleven months, and 23 days ago." A lover's smile on his face, Turner sighed in memory. "Not the most proper occasion for a wedding – it was in the middle of a battle. But she never looked more beautiful than she did on that day. I was married in the midst of battle by a pirate Captain, my friend Jack Sparrow at my side." He grinned reminiscently. "Perhaps you had to have been there."

Intrigued in spite of himself, Barker saw Turner's face soften as he spoke of that day, happiness clear in every syllable. _He knows, he knows what it feels like! Then why can't he let me go?_ came that dark angry voice from deep within him. He finished the shave, and for a second visualized himself threatening the captain with the razor before he quickly banished the image.

Then he remembered where he was. And more importantly, where Turner was. The weight of what must have happened to Turner crashed into him, and he almost forgot to breathe.

Closing his eyes, Turner shook his head as Barker wiped off the remaining foam. "Whoever kills the captain of the Flying Dutchman becomes its Captain in his stead." He gestured across the cabin, and included the whole ship. "The crew was enslaved to Davy Jones. My father was part of that crew, and I wanted to free him, so I battled Davy Jones. For my father, for Elizabeth, for our freedom."

"And you won?" If this was victory, Barker didn't want to imagine what defeat was like. Mechanically he cleaned his razor.

The remnants of the smile fell from his face as Turner continued. "No, I lost. Davy Jones stabbed me, and I died. But not before I held his heart in my hand and stabbed it through. Jack Sparrow put the sword in my other hand so that I could kill Davy Jones."

Barker wasn't sure he had heard correctly. In his hand? Shouldn't the heart have been in Davy Jones' chest? And then he understood.. There was no use even imagining killing the Captain – he would still be a prisoner on the Flying Dutchman, whether Turner was Captain or not. _No, no, this__ should not be. I will not be a prisoner again!_

"The Captain of the Flying Dutchman is bound to the ship forever, but for each ten years at sea, he is given one day on land." Turner closed his eyes in sad remembrance before opening them to look into Barker's face.

Be calm. Find out more, Barker told himself. "If it has been nearly ten years, then you must be hoping to be reunited with your wife... if only for a day." The furious envy that filled his entire being was well hidden in his voice.

A radiant smile on his face, Turner explained, "No, I will be reunited with her forever."

"But how – "

"If his love is true, the Captain of the Dutchman will be released from his duty." Turner rubbed the scar on his chest. "Elizabeth will be there—she holds my heart. And I will be there with her."

Barker remembered the crew's altercation with the First Mate. The men were afraid – and he knew what desperate men could do. Didn't the Captain realize how his crew felt about this? Was he that naive? "And what of your crew, sir? What will happen to them?"

"The Dutchman must have a captain. Ogilvey, perhaps. He is the most experienced on the ship." But Turner's voice was troubled.

"And if I – they wish to leave? What then?" Barker asked. Perhaps with a new captain he could escape this prison.

"Those who wish to move on can finally have a peaceful ending. That is the only release." Turner gazed at him compassionately.

A peaceful ending. A peaceful ending – but an agony of torment in the afterlife as he never saw Lucy, never held Johanna, never freed them from whatever miserable life they had scrabbled together. Never came back to his home, never was allowed to be a father, couldn't protect his family, failed to bring them justice...

Anger rose bitterly in him – he could almost taste it. "No. I'm going to London. I will. I will go home, no matter what." This was all wrong – he was not meant to be here, he was not meant to be dead. He was not a sailor – he was not a prisoner – he **would not** be a prisoner._ Not ever again._

"Your home is no longer in London, Benjamin." Turner's brown eyes peered thoughtfully at Barker as if he could see into his soul. "You're dead now. You can rest for a while, and then go on."

"No! My wife – my child," Barker gasped. "They need me. I must return to them." He began to pace across the room, opening and closing the razor blade with a disconcerting rhythm that both riled and calmed him. Turner carefully got up from the chair as Barker paced around him.

"What do you know of love, of life – you're so young, so naive," Barker whispered. _As I was. Once. Not anymore. Not gentle, not quiet, not submitting, not weak anymore. Take what you must have, do what you must do, fulfill your promises._

Turner grabbed Barker's shoulder, and forced him down into the chair. "Sit," he commanded, and for a moment his brown eyes flashed green. "I understand how you feel, more than anyone else here." He said softly, "I have been told I have a son. Soon I will see him for the first time."

"And I have not seen my daughter for fifteen years - since she was but a babe! I have missed her entire childhood because I was taken away and sent across the world! I was stolen from my wife and my daughter, and now that I am so close to getting home, you tell me that I am dead and must stay on this ship?" The fury in Barker's voice melded with the madness in his eyes, turning them almost black as he hissed, "I WILL NOT STAY HERE."

Turner stood motionless, and that eldritch power that Barker had felt when he was first awakened gathered around him, concentrated and focused. "You have no choice, Benjamin Barker. Stay here and accept this existence, or move on. I am sorry, but that is the way it must be." The lamps in the cabin began to sputter, and Turner's eyes began to glow.

The air grew hot and heavy, as if a storm was gathering. Barker glared at Turner. He could almost hear the wind howl, as Turner's power pressed at him. He tried to withstand it, tried to fight, but finally he had to back down and look away.

Turner's eyes faded back to a soft brown, but his voice was commanding and stern. "Time is short. Make your decision."

* * *

There's more to come - things a coming to a head. Don't worry, this story will be completed. Another few chapters to go, I think.


	6. His Deal and His Decision

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney/Benjamin Barker belongs to Sondheim, Tim Burton, and Johnny Depp; Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, Doris The Younger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories).

And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews! Please - let me know what you think - even a simple comment means a lot to a writer.

We're coming to the end stretch - and Sweeney Todd is waiting to greet us at the end, don't worry about that!

* * *

**Chapter 06 – His Deal **

Bootstrap worriedly studied the strange landlubber that was standing by the rail – the dark anger that emanated from Barker was almost palpable to everyone on the ship. The crew was getting leery of him – Ogilvey had tried to approach him, but kept his distance after Barker's heated glance. This isn't good, the First Mate thought. The crew was stepping cautiously and carefully around Barker, darting meaningful looks at each other as their mood began to turn dark and ugly, Bootstrap was staying ready to stop any trouble, and Will's power still kept control of the volatile situation on the ship. Barely.

Bootstrap had overheard some of the conversation in the Captain's cabin, had seen the green light begin to glow, had heard the wind beginning to howl inside its confines. For a moment he'd been thrown back to that awful time over ten years ago when Davy Jones grew angry and the organ sounded as the punishments began. But these days the organ was long gone, Davy Jones was gone, and Barker had emerged from the cabin whole, although and dark and furious. The green light had faded into nothing, but the crew had seen it and remembered and shuddered.

The poor bugger should have just passed before we got to him, Bootstrap thought regretfully. If I hadn't grabbed him when I did, he'd have died and gone on. If he stays he's going to cause trouble, but he's not going to go of his own free will. What would happen if he was sent on anyway (_say it, killed_)? There was only one person on the Flying Dutchman who had that power, and Will wouldn't. He couldn't. He shouldn't.

Bootstrap had an idea how Barker was feeling. As far as he knew, none of the other crewmen were fathers, none of them understood what it was like not to be able to be with your child or see him grow up. Bootstrap couldn't help but sympathize. He'd nearly gone mad when he thought that Will had been killed. How much longer could Barker hang on?

And what would happen to him when Will left? How could the crew of the Dutchman deal with a man like Barker? More than likely, the other sailors would try to slap him down– and what would that change Barker into? The rest of the crew was just learning how to be men again. If they dealt cruelly with Barker, that could destroy everything they'd come to remember about human compassion.

Will wouldn't – shouldn't – stay on the ship if he had the chance to leave, and no one else had the ability or will to command a crew like this. A vision of the Flying Dutchman under the command of a truly dead man-one who no longer understood what it meant to be alive-came to him, and he shuddered. He could remember serving – if you could call it that – under Captain Davy Jones, watching the souls of the dead all lost and alone, trying to find their own way to the afterlife. Davy Jones might have been human once, but all the time that Bootstrap had known him, he'd been a monster. Full of rage, all-powerful, and a monster. The Flying Dutchman couldn't become that ship of horror once again. If she did, would she be destroyed by the same goddess that had created her?

And if that happened, what of the crew that had managed to stay aboard her, trying to better themselves – would they be discarded? Would they finally be sent on without a chance to make amends, or find their humanity again? What afterlife would they be consigned to?

Someone needed to stay, to become Captain. Someone needed to guide this crew so that they could be saved. And there was no one else who would do it–who could do it.

Bootstrap sighed. There was really only one way that he could think of that had any hope of solving this mess, and he didn't feel ready for it at all.

He glanced at Barker, who was still staring angrily across the sea, and at the crew, muttering as they worked. Maybe something good could come out of this after all. Lost in thought, Bootstrap walked across the deck and climbed down to the cargo hold. He remembered seeing a big pearl necklace awhile back – gems from the sea ought to do it. Rummaging a bit through the ill-kept hoard, he found the valuable necklace flung on top of the pile. Climbing back to the main deck, he walked to the rail, leaned over, and threw the pearl necklace into the waves. Ignoring Ogilvey's curious look, he waited, silently casting the call as he watched the pearl necklace floating on the waves.

A few hours later the crew broke their labors for a brief rest as Captain Turner surveyed the waves from the bowsprit. Barker had remained by the rail, still as a statue, his silent fury still barely abating. The sun had vanished below the horizon and the stars twinkled in the dark the winds picked up and the waves grew wild. As Bootstrap waited by the rail close to the mainmast, he saw a crab climb onto the deck from the far hull, followed by another, then another, until finally there was a flood of crabs. The flood formed into a pile, then a tower, and then _**she**_ was there.

She smelled of the sea and her black hair waved in a wind that did not disturb the sails. She had the appearance of a dark-skinned gypsy with black tattoos on her face. Her lips were dark and her eyes flashing. Ghost-white shells and the string of pearls he'd offered her hung on her neck and her billowing skirt flowed onto the deck like the restless waves onto the shore.

The Lady looked human, but Bootstrap knew better. He bowed low and respectfully murmured, "Calypso." He glanced back quickly as he heard his son approach from behind him.

Captain Turner touched his forehead deferentially, but stayed back a bit from her. "Tia Dalma, or should I say, Calypso? I did not call you."

"Ah, you can call me Tia Dalma, my handsome Captain. The goddess Calypso belongs to the sea, but Tia Dalma can remember being human. But we shall stay here under the open sky, for I can also remember being confined." As she whirled her skirts around, lightning flashed in a sky now filled with dark clouds, and the crew withdrew from her presence.

"I came to see my handsome captain once more," Calypso continued flirtily. She gave Bootstrap a long look with eyes as changeable as the sea, then turned her attention to the younger Turner. "The ten years are almost gone, and I may not see you aboard the Flying Dutchman again." With a smile, she added capriciously, "Or I may – your love is steadfast, but she is also a Pirate King of the Sea."

Will Turner rubbed the scar on his chest. "Elizabeth will be there to meet me. I know she will. After all, she holds my heart, in every way." He paused, then asked quietly, "Who have you chosen as the next captain?"

"Ah, who shall it be? I will not leave my Dutchman rudderless. But there are so many choices." She smirked coyly. "Perhaps witty Jack–no, he would not be a good captain of the Flying Dutchman. He's too much like the sea. There is also the good Barbossa, who still sails these waters... and the Pirate Brethren do owe me a debt. He freed me – perhaps we can make a bargain." A sideways look at Bootstrap. "And another offer has recently been made."

This was the moment. With a deep breath (he didn't need the breath but he needed the fortitude), William Turner Senior bowed low and beseeched the Goddess of the Sea. "Calypso, if it pleases you, I offer myself as the next captain."

He heard a sharp gasp from his son. "What? No, you can't," Will Turner cried out. "Father, you've spent too long on this ship already. You can't stay here on the Dutchman." He reached out and desperately grasped Bootstrap's arm. "Don't do this, please."

Bootstrap laid one hand on Will's arm and grasped it in return. Shaking his head, he gave his son a look of love, pride and sadness. "Will, you've got a family to go to. I've had ten years to be with my son – that was worth the price I've paid. But the crew needs someone who remembers compassion, who remembers being a man. The world doesn't need another Davy Jones – begging your pardon, ma'am.

He smiled fondly at his son. "And there's no one else that can do this. I have to,Will. I have a duty to the crew. If it weren't for me, you'd be with Elizabeth now, telling your son stories about Jack Sparrow. But it's been grand serving with you, son. I wouldn't have given it up for anything."

Her face impassive, Calypso searched Bootstrap's eyes and soul for a long moment before smiling sweetly and cupping his face with her hand. It felt to Bootstrap like the touch of gentle, lulling waves. "'Tis true, the dead should be served with compassion – that is what I had always intended. William Turner, you have thought about this much and well, and you are prepared to serve me and assume the duty that I would put on you. I accept your offer. You shall be the next captain of the Flying Dutchman."

"Oh, Father…" For a moment Will sounded like a forlorn boy as he abandoned any pretense of impassiveness and hugged his father hard. "At least you'll have one day on land after each ten years at sea. On that one day you will always be welcome in my home, and I will always be there for you. No matter what, I will be there on that one day." He hugged his father again, tightly, as if he could not bear to let go.

"Oh, Father, you shouldn't have to wait ten years to see your family! I wanted you to be free and happy, not... " Will's voice trailed off into silence.

And then Will stopped and stared at Calypso, who gazed at him mysteriously. Struck by sudden realization, he cried out, "My love for my father is true, and will remain true. I will be there for him in ten years." Staring at Calypso, he said earnestly, "Love comes in many forms. Isn't it so that a son's love for his father can be as true as the love between a man and his bride?"

The sun broke out of the clouds on a perfect day – and Calypso beamed at Will. "Not only handsome, but wise as well. Would that others were as wise as you!"

"He's wiser than I," Bootstrap said quietly, hand to his heart. His deep bow to Calypso not so coincidentally hid the tears in his eyes. Her approval felt like a warm gentle seabreeze blowing across the deck.

But there was still something else that he had to say. "If I may, I would like to make a request." Bootstrap's eyes slid to Barker, who was staring wonderingly at them.

Calypso turned to peer at Barker and reeled back slightly from the dark anger that poured from him. "Ask, William Turner, and I shall consider it."

Bootstrap gestured to Barker. "This man is not meant for the Dutchman. And more to the point, the Dutchman is not meant for him."

* * *

**His Decision**

Benjamin Barker had been pacing the deck of the Dutchman all day long, barely noticing the other crewmen as they worked away. Up and down the deck, staring at the sea, trying to calm down the fury that bubbled up inside. Staring north to London – always north. Throughout the afternoon and into the twilight he paced. _Stay or die, die or stay. There had to be another choice!_

Ogilvey tried to approach, but after Barker's heated glare he kept his distance, obviously unsure of what to do. Idly, Barker watched the First Mate throw something into the waves. He could hear the crew muttering and whispering about him, but he did not care. _There must be a way out – there must be!_

A few hours later, after the sun had vanished below the horizon and the stars began to twinkle in the dark sky, the winds picked up and the waves grew wild. Barker was still at the rail. A scurrying crab caught his eye, and his gaze followed it as it joined with others, more and still more as the crabs scrabbled on top of each other. The tower of crabs suddenly created a human-shaped form, and amazingly, she was there.

She was dark-skinned and wild-looking, and she smelled of the sea and storms, Her long locks waved in a wind that he didn't feel. Barker could feel power and force welling from her – the same power that Turner had used on him. This was someone, no, _something_, that would understand the wild fury that filled his heart.

He silently drew close and watched the First Mate and Captain Turner greet the woman with great respect, heard her statement about being confined. "Confined... yes," Barker whispered. The tiny prison cell that he'd spent too many weeks in assaulted his memories – he hadn't been able to move, he could barely breathe, all he could do was think, and wait. And hate. He shook the feeling away and his eyes widened as he witnessed the First Mate's offer, and Calypso's acceptance.

"My love for my father will remain true," Will Turner declared. Not as naive as he thought, Barker mused darkly. Love for a wife, love for a child... and hopefully, love for a father could be pure and true. _Are you still waiting for me, Lucy? Please..._

Then Mr. Turner motioned to Barker. "This man is not meant for the Dutchman. And more to the point, the Dutchman is not meant for him."

At that, Calypso turned her full attention to him, Benjamin Barker. Her black eyes studied his face, and her black mouth curved in a sad smile. "Such a strong and singleminded man." Her voice was soft and otherworldly. "Ah, you resemble my witty Jack – but you're not a man of the sea as he is."

"The Dutchman – you're a part of all this?" Barker felt the power from her as he approached, but he no longer cared about the consequences.

The wind grew, and the waves became rougher. "My Dutchman is part of what must be," she replied, smiling at the Turners. "She has been in good hands these ten years, and she will be in good hands hereafter."

Calypso studied him as if he was a prize specimen, coming so close he could smell the clean saltwater perfume of her. "Ah, my determined one. You are dead, but your soul is so alive. You cannot accept the choices you were given, and so you will not decide. But that means you cannot truly be part of the world, either this one or the next. In either world, you will never fully belong.

"And yes, you are not meant for here. There is a darkness in you that would lead to trouble on my Dutchman. And I will not have that again."

Knowing he could never fool her, Barker moistened his lips and tried to forestall the wild anger that still danced inside him. "Please, I would be with my wife and daughter." His voice trembled with fear and longing.

"Your determination comes from so much love, and so much hate. You have been confined... as I was, in a way." She touched his hand, and for the first time in a long while, he felt warm in body and in spirit. But when she removed her hand, he grew cold again. "But you cannot leave without a sacrifice."

The wild anger flared into a wild hope. "I don't care! What must I do? No matter the cost, I will do it!"

She touched his face and the warmth returned for a moment. "Do not say that. The cost may be more than you ever wanted to pay, or that anyone should pay." She gazed measuringly at him. "Yes, you can return. But never as you were."

A bitter laugh emergd from Barker's lips, and his voice grew gravelly and harsh. "I'll never be the same as I was. The man that was sent away is dead now. Well and truly dead. But there are things that I must do."

Calypso nodded, and looked at Turner before turning to Barker. "I will grant your wish–but you must make a choice. As you return, you must choose between love or hate ." She grasped his head and rested her forehead on his in a intimate caress. "You will not see me again. I cannot appear to you, not to such a harsh cold land."

She turned in a circle, grasped Captain Turner's arm and laid her hand on Mr. Turner's head. "But as for you two – I will see you again soon." Her eyes grew stormy, and the waves crashed higher and higher.

Spreading her arms, she grew larger and larger, finally melting into a tower of crabs that poured over the rail back into the waves. The crew bowed low in fear as they huddled by the mainmast. Then the lightning flashed, and Calypso was gone.

Wild power filled Barker. He knew he could do anything – even leave. Without hesitation he threw his legs over the rail. Captain Turner grabbed desperately for him, but his father caught Captain Turner's arm and stopped him from dragging Barker back onto the Dutchman.

_What could they do against him now_? Barker laughed exultantly. He caught Mr. Turner's eye, and nodded in respect. Then Captain Turner opened his hand to gesture outward. "You must go to your family. I release you from the Flying Dutchman. May you find your own way."

Barker gazed briefly at the waves, and with a deep breath leapt into the sea.

_Lucy, I'm coming home._

The sea covered him as he began to sink (_so much warmer than he thought it would be_), but then he stopped sinking. There was a barrier around the Dutchman that ensnared him and kept him from moving any further from the ship.

_No!_

He struggled and refused to give way, punching through the barrier, forcing himself through it little by little. _No, I will leave. I will return home. I will, I will, I will, I WILL—_

And suddenly it was gone–the barrier was gone.

He felt himself heading for the light above. As he broke the surface, he saw a shape – a ghostly ship with white sails-disappearing into the mists around it.

There was a bump at his back and and a piece of decking from a wrecked ship wafted into him. He crawled onto it and found a piece of sail. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and the sun hurt his eyes. Then thirst hit him and his stomach felt like it had shrunk to a pebble.

Barker laughed hollowly.

He was alive and free, but he was lost in the middle of the endless ocean.

* * *

For every deal and decision, there are consequences. Barker will find that out next...


	7. Consequences

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, Sweeney/Benjamin Barker belongs to Sondheim, Tim Burton, and Johnny Depp; Will Turner and his father, Bootstrap Bill and the Flying Dutchman (aka, Pirates of the Caribbean) don't belong to me either, etc., etc. Incredible amounts of thanks to my beta, Doris The Younger (check out her Lord of the Rings stories).

And many thanks also to my future reviewers—I really love reviews! Please - let me know what you think - even a simple comment means a lot to a writer.

Here at last is the end of the story. Let me know what you thought of it.

* * *

**Chapter 07 Consequences**

Days passed as Barker struggled to stay on the raft. He'd caught a fish once–actually, the fish flew into his raft as if it was sent, but nothing else appeared. The heat and light and salt ate away at his body, and he curled under the scrap of sail for most of the daylight hours. He didn't sleep, didn't rest, just lay on the raft, waiting out the days and nights, hoping to see any type of sails on the horizon.

_I may end up returning to the Dutchman anyway_. The days weakened him, breathing became harder, and every bit of moisture seemed to be sucked from his body. He didn't know how much longer he could last.

Barker called the images of his wife and daughter into his mind to give him the strength he needed.

_Lucy's blonde hair and blue eyes in a pale oval face, smiling shyly and lovingly. A tiny baby girl called out to him. Flowers in Lucy's hands, flowers surrounding her, flowers in Johanna's blankets...love in his heart, his voice, his hands..._

As he grew weaker, Barker knew that he wouldn't make it. He would die, and find himself either back on the Flying Dutchman or sent to the afterlife – the very fate that he had just managed to escape.

_Golden hair, a sweet smile, the cooing of a baby..._ he tried to sustain himself with his love for Lucy and Johanna, but his strength still ebbed away.

And then the black fury came, and for once, he wholly welcomed it.

_Flowers falling from his hands, dead and dry flowers that dropped from Turpin's hands, Turpin's hands banging the gavel, Turpin's voice sentencing him, Turpin's face in triumph..._

_Pale wan Lucy reaching for him, her golden hair streaming as she called to him, sweet Johanna crying, crying... his world ending... his heart breaking..._

_No, no, I'm innocent, I didn't do anything, can't you see what's happening, he wants her, he wants my beautiful Lucy and my baby needs me and I didn't do anything! I'm not the criminal –he is, he is!_

_Years of loneliness, isolation, torture... whippings and drownings and pain and cruelty and anger and hate... a pale face always in his mind, yearning and love submerged under determination driven by anger and hate..._

A black fury filled his being with the determination to live, to survive.

_Lucy, I'm coming for you, and I will make everything right. I will be there for you, and I will have justice for us. I will punish him, I will kill him, I WILL HAVE HIM!_

The waves splashed over him, almost caressing him. Calypso's voice whispered in the waves. _You have come back._ _You have chosen, my strong, determined man. You must live with your choice._

He was still alive – and he couldn't wait to return to London. Lucy was waiting for him. And so was Turpin. Benjamin Barker was finally coming home. _No, that man is dead. Call me Sweeney... Sweeney Todd._

_

* * *

_

Hot, unending, torturous days later, the merchant ship appeared on the horizon, and approached his makeshift raft. As the ship grew closer, the wind that had filled its sails settled into a gentle breeze.

AHOY, came a call from the ship. A rope ladder was unrolled from the side and a young man nimbly climbed down the ladder to pull Todd's makeshift raft closer. "You're safe now. Don't worry," he said as he grabbed the man who called himself Sweeney Todd firmly but gently, and helped him cling to the ladder as they were pulled aboard.

His eyes wide and voice gentle, the sailor boosted him over the ship's rail. "You're safe now. Don't worry," he repeated. "This is the ship Bountiful, bound for London. I'm Anthony Hope, Second Mate."

The deck was moist beneath his hands. The aptly-named Bountiful felt real, and alive as the Dutchman had not been – full of noise and movement and sensation and life. He wanted to yell, to cheer, to laugh in joy... but he couldn't. _I'm not alive enough for that._

Anthony Hope lifted him from the deck with a light, strong touch. "Let me help you, Mr..."

"Todd. My name is Todd," he managed to croak through blistered lips. His feet hurt, his skin hurt, the sun assaulted his eyes, and he wanted so much to laugh with relief. _Pain is life... and I'm alive again. I'm alive!_

Once again he found himself in a sickbay, bottles and bandages opened and scattered across the shelves. The ship's doctor examined him gently and carefully. After applying a soothing lotion to his skin, the doctor gave him a drink laced with laudanum. Throughout the ordeal, Hope helped the doctor eagerly.

At his request, Anthony Hope even found a hand mirror for him. His hand trembled as he gazed into the mirror.

He saw a pale face like a corpse, a face hollowed with torment, eyes black but burning with an inner light. His hair was almost black, and wild as the sea, with a stripe of white at his temple.

He couldn't remember what he'd looked like before... but he was a monster now.

He tried to force his face out of the scowl that was set there.

Nothing.

He tried to smile.

Nothing.

He wracked his brain to think of anything that could bring a smile to that terrible corpse-face.

Nothing.

The memory of Lucy's face brought a wave of longing and sadness and regret... and tears that could not fall.

He tried to feel grateful, tried to feel safe, tried to feel anything.

But feeling was almost gone, muted under anger and love roiling together... Lucy, and his Johanna. And Turpin, and the Beadle, and what he'd do to them. No matter what, they'd pay for what they had done to Benjamin Barker.

Sweeney Todd would make them pay for what they'd done. And he'd find Lucy, and Johanna, and... and by then he'd know what he wanted to do. Maybe by then he would feel alive again.

A wicked smile began to form on his face, but inside he felt like screaming and crying.

Benjamin Barker had suffered, had died, had fought his way back to the living, and had chosen between love and hate. God help him, he'd chosen.

END


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